Six Months on The Road (Part 1): The Missing
The items I’ve missed most while being on the road for the last six months (in chronological/left-behind order): cowboy boots (put in storage in Philadelphia in June), noodle bowl and chopsticks (left in my trunk with Giulia in Welland, Canada in September ish), tambourine (left in a duffel with mae in Tacoma, WA November ish).
Missing stuff is missing nothing.
I don’t miss any thing.
I miss people. Even the people I left a quick minute ago.
I miss Vincent and his family. Vincent for his pseudo-hard-guy bad ass self as I’ve know him for 18 years. Hold up. EIGHTEEN YEARS. Yep. He’s still a pseudo-hard-guy bad ass. I love him for all that and for the husband, dad, and friend he has been to me for EIGHTEEN YEARS. I miss Vincent’s family, every one of them. As I knew and know them. They are all amazing people and testimonies to what a great man he is. He is my comrade. I miss my brother.
I miss Vicmarie’s hyperbolic crazy aghast faces. I miss her unfaltering encouragement and faith. I miss her letting me hug her while she’s washing dishes. I miss Vicmarie’s family that I’ve grown to love and cherish over the last 10+ years. Her kids, her husband, her parents, in-laws, etc. Every member of her family has embraced me. Every member of her family has extended themselves to embrace me as familia. I miss mi familia.
I miss Bill and Nette and Chris. All doing great stuff. They are grounded and motivated. They are my last family in Seattle. They inspire me. Bill and I dance to the best 80’s music. Nette and I chat about how to grow in this world. I miss Chris. He is one of my oldest and most cherished friends. I miss his crazy kid, Henry. I’ve only known Henry for a quick minute, but I miss that nugget. I want to know him more so he misses me too. Chris and I reminisce; we imagine what can be great in the world. We imagine a separate future shaped by a shared past. I miss the familiarity of longevity.
I miss Ryan’s cats. No. Wait. I don’t. I miss Ryan. His openness. His creativity. He’s brave. He’s a visionary of joy. And yes, I miss BERTHA, his massive cat. No. Wait. Ryan is that kid that you meet one night at a club and then eight years later you’re still best friends because he has metal. He is resilient. He is a survivor. He knows me because he knows himself. These days, I miss him most when I don’t want to miss anything, but when I miss myself. And he’s there. Always present. I miss my mirror.
I miss Giulia’s rose-cheeked smile after one beer on a hot summer day. I miss walking with her along the canal at sunset. I miss her pseudo evil tween-teen. I miss our family dinners. Dairy Queen. Singular and many evenings when we came together and made something: food, crafts, memories. I miss our sisterhood. I miss the inkling of Family as I attempt to make it I began to feel in her home. I miss my sister-friend.
I miss Alan’s snorting and deep exhales while he works, blogs, and makes stuff. I miss the parallelism he presents in our similar journey. I miss his empathy in the looks, the silence of comfortable companionship. I miss his openness to feedback, and dialog. I miss his music, that comes in song and in silence. I miss his place in a Family I fleetingly felt in Welland. I miss he who makes our triumvirate.
I could go on and on and on about each person, each person that touched my life over the last six months, and more so over my life time as a free adult.
Imagine yourself, writing in public, even just a few words about the people who have touched you, those who have informed the way you live in the world today, over the last six months.
Stay tuned for: “Six Months on The Road (Part 2): Añoranza …”
p.s. I write this while sitting at a desk in the basement of Casa Bava. Jim Groom, his wife Antonella, and their three children are snugged-up overhead. This family was the first I retreated to six months ago this week. They (and the other Fredericksburg locals) embraced me with warm hearts. This family is the family I wish I knew as a kid. The one that presented a solid foundation of love and freedom. Ultimately, Jim and Antonella create a home where kids are brilliant wild beasties and dinner table dialog about film and critical theory, and playing games is the norm. They make a home that I can visit whenever, always be welcome, always have a place at the table, with no pressure, and be treated as a welcome guest. Be treated as family. Or a gypsy rogue scholar. Whatever works. Regardless. When I’m not here, I miss being here.